


Madness

by Luce_cm



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: (related to Kwentrith, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Meetings, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, as per canon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce_cm/pseuds/Luce_cm
Summary: The reader is a Mercian Princess that meets the sons of Ragnar, and finds Ivar and her might have more than a few things in common, and can prove useful to one another
Relationships: Blaeja/Sigurd (Vikings), Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request: “I was wondering if I could request an imagine where the reader is a princess and Ivar travels to England with his brothers & thinks the princess is beautiful but he gets teased by Sigurd and his brothers but she can understand their language and decides to flirt with him in front of everyone?”
> 
> So I made her Kwenthrith’s daughter because why the fuck not, and Blaeja (Aelle’s daughter) is on this cause again, why the fuck not. Also the Reader might be a tad insane, but at this rate all my Reader characters are idk what to tell u

The handmaid is fixing the coronet over your head when you hear the doors to your rooms open, so she turns to demand propriety from whoever entered unannounced, but seeing Aelle’s daughter with a devilish smile on her lips stops her on her tracks.

“Your Grace.” The woman bows gracefully, and steps back, letting Blaeja take her place.

“Are you ready?” The girl whispers to you, adept hand working at the tresses of your hair to make sure it is carefully hidden under your veil that showcases the delicate circlet on your head.

“You are the one that will be sent off to be married, my friend,” You remind her, chuckling, “To one of those…”

“Lord Sigurd is not that bad,” She interrupts, what for a second sounds like girlish infatuation on her tone. You are opening your mouth to quip on how she refers to one of those brutes as a ‘Lord’ but she clears her throat, and continues, “He played some music for me, the other day.”

“You have nothing to fear then,” You mock with a roll of your eyes, “Maybe he also played music for your father before they executed him, made all of it a much more lovely affair.”

Blaeja tugs at your hair in warning, and you steal a glance at the handmaid that looks carefully at the floor. As if she needed eyes to hear you, as if you didn’t know how she’ll gossip about this with the others.

“Careful, or I’ll ask that you come with me,” She laughs, “I’ll have you sold for two gold coins.”

“You are talking to the heiress to a broken and war-torn kingdom, Lady Blaeja, you better remember that!” You tell her in jest, and she laughs, with that laugh you two share, that laugh born out of despair and loss and uncertainty.

“How could I? Judith never lets me forget what a might Mercia continues to be.” She replies with no little disdain in her tone. After a breath of hesitation, she orders with curt words for the servants to leave you two alone, and once the doors close, the Princess of Northumbria kneels in front of you where you sit, grabbing your hands tightly on her own.

“You are scaring me.”

“There’s no reason to fear,” She tells you even as tears fill her eyes. With a tremulous smile, she whispers, “I heard my sister talking with her husband, about _you_.”

“Me?”

“Alfred would benefit greatly from having a Mercian Princess as wife,” She states, and though she smiles you feel only cold settling over your heart, _dread_. “With your mother dead…”

“Dead when King Ecbert, blessed be his memory, took control over Mercia, Blaeja! They already own my kingdom.” You remind her lowly, leaning down so your faces are closer to each other, but this doesn’t dim her smile.

Your heart aches at the reminder of your mother, for her, in all her sins and her scars, was the only family you ever had. The only protection you had, in that palace filled with monsters.

If you think about it, if you sit surrounded by all your sins and your mistakes and your faults and think about it, you know it was the sight of her shaking hands as she looked at them expecting to see blood and told you of the death of her brother that made you stop having faith in your God.

It wasn’t the death of a would-be king at the hands of his sister what made you realize the bishops and priests and deacons and _saints_ were all full of lies, no. It was the emptiness in her gaze as she spoke of walking out of that room a Queen and realizing it wasn’t enough to make up for the pain he -the last remaining alive in the long line of monsters that made up your family- caused her.

It was the hoarse voice of the proud and ruthless Queen of Mercia telling you of the barbarity that took place right under her father’s willfully ignorant gaze, it was the shaking hands that clasped your own and begged for forgiveness that she didn’t need to ask for, it was the severed heads brought in by the Vikings that weren’t enough to heal her, it was the realization God, if he was ever there, looked away most of her life.

You shake those thoughts off, and focus on the Princess before you that smiles in a mix of joy for your fate and bitterness for hers.

With shaky breaths, you insist, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“They would have Mercian blood on their lineage, it would strengthen their claim.” She states, and the disgust it fills you with makes you feel shame. You should be ecstatic at the chance of becoming Queen, at the prospect giving Wessex strong sons to prepare for ruling and beautiful daughters to…to exchange like broodmares, like Blaeja, given to a Viking of all men, breakable daughters to fail to protect, like Kwenthrith, raped by her own brother and uncle.

You remember your mother’s pain. You remember her whispers about the court being filled with snakes, you remember her stories about the women with swords and loud voices.

And you remember King Ecbert’s lessons. You remember his tales about the land where his Ragnar Lothbrok came from, you remember his bitterness at the strange land that captured the heart of a man of God such as Athelstan.

You meet her brown eyes, and force a smile on your lips, because may the earth part underneath your feet and drag you down, you will not wed Alfred.

____

They introduce you to the sons of Ragnar, and you will admit, Blaeja looks positively smitten by the easy smile the blond man gives her in greeting. Lovely.

Judith makes a point of having you be sitting next to Alfred who, blessed be his soul, attempts to strike conversation with you only to be stopped by his own shyness.

You still offer him a few courteous smiles, and thank his kindness when he offers it so. When the Vikings talk amongst each other, mostly about the strange food and customs, you notice the King looks at you to gauge your expression, as if he knows you also know their tongue.

You worry about how much King Ecbert shared with him for a moment, but say nothing.

“ _So, the one that walked in with your bride,_ ” One of the sons of Ragnar starts, and though you decide to pay attention you keep your gaze on your food and the entertainment going on around you, offering one of the performers a small smile. “ _Who is she?_ ”

“ _Princess of Mercia, I think. The crazy queen father fought for with Uncle Rollo and the others, that’s her daughter._ ” A man with hair that you thought first was short but realized later falls down his back in a thick braid, his blond beard unkept, but his eyes those of an experienced man as they look over the room.

“ _Let’s hope beauty is not all she shares with that crazy bitch, huh? I would love to fuck a Saxon princess again.”_ Mocks a man you weren’t introduced to, so not a son of Ragnar, with ink on his face and long dark hair.

You realize too late you have lifted your gaze and set your eyes on him, what is sure to be affront and embarrassment showing on your face.

You lower your eyes again to the table before you, clenching your hands into fists on your lap, but you feel like someone is looking at you, and from the other end of the table, when you peek carefully, you catch the eyes of the one they introduced but whose name you can’t remember, the one with short dark hair, the one whose legs seem to be broken.

He looks at you with a silver of surprise, but there’s something else there. Regardless, you know he knows, and it makes fear settle on your stomach like acid. You wonder if this is what Burgred felt when he was poisoned.

“ _You’ve been staring at her all night, Ivar,_ ” Blaeja’s betrothed starts, voice sickly mocking. “ _Are you hoping she’ll look back? Take your cripple ass to her bed?”_

“ _Sigurd…”_ One of the elder brothers grumbles, clearly tired of it all.

“ _I’m just saying, he’d have more luck forcing a thrall to touch him than hoping a free woman will._ ”

“ _You would know, wouldn’t you, brother? Fucking your slave so she can’t even say no._ ”

“ _Who out of the two of us will bed a princess, hmm? It surely isn’t the cripple that can’t even please a slave right, is it?_ ”

You and Alfred exchange a look, no longer pretending either of you don’t understand, as the youngest, _Ivar_ , snarls some threat at his brother, voice and temper rising alike.

Refusing to be spoken of like some sort of cunt with a crown, you speak up, though your gaze remains on your plate.

“ _Princess Blaeja asks you to play that awful lute to keep your paws off her, so I fear that arrogance is unfounded, my Prince.”_

Alfred chokes on his drink as he tries covering a startled laugh with a cough, and you feel wide eyes from the end of the table where the Vikings seat settle on you.

“ _What did you say?”_ One of the men asks slowly, and with the madness your mother left you with, you lift your gaze and meet the eyes of the man you recognize as Bjorn Ironside.

“ _My mother wasn’t crazy,_ ” Is all you reply with gritted teeth, before turning to the blonde that Blaeja is to marry. You don’t know what it is that makes you open your mouth again, but you do, “ _And I was indeed looking at your brother. I feel for you deeply, my Prince, if you can’t recognize want in a woman’s gaze._ ”

Alfred clears his throat, what you could swear is a smile -the youthful smile of a boy witnessing chaos- shyly settling on his lips, and stands up to propose a toast and dissipate the atmosphere.

“With this being one of the last nights our dear Blaeja, daughter of the late King Aelle, blessed be his soul, spends with us, I-…”

You don’t listen anymore, taking a sip from your wine and catching over the rim of your goblet the eyes of the youngest son of Ragnar -Ivar, you remind yourself- on you, studying you with a mix of mistrust and curiosity.

You keep your gaze on his, and as you lower your cup from your lips, you offer a smile. His own lips tremble in what was sure to be an instinctual reply with a smile of his own, before he schools his features.

Regardless, he takes his eyes off yours and in his whole posture embarrassment is written. Managing to fluster a Viking of all men fills you with a thrill, a heat, like no other.

The men toast and you gesture your goodbyes as the dinner is dispersed. Before you can make it out the door, Blaeja stops you with a hand on your arm.

“What did y-…do you speak their tongue?”

“I do. King Ecbert taught me a lot before he died,” You state, before frowning in confusion and thoughtfulness, “Before he died at the hands of these men…Blaeja, my friend, don’t you ever stop and think about how strange it all has become?”

Blaeja only narrows her eyes with a growing exasperated smile on her lips.

“I care about what you said to my future husband.”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” You pat her cheek in friendly jest, making her roll her eyes. After a moment of consideration, you tell her, “Though he may not play his lute as often anymore, I fear.”

____

You wait impatiently by the window to your room, wondering over and over if this is the wrong choice, if you are making the worst mistake possible, if you are walking into the wolf’s den.

Before you can think yourself out of this, Blaeja, with her head covered by a dark cloak, makes her way into your room.

“I didn’t think your betrothed would agree.” Is all you state, dryly, as she motions for you to get your own cloak.

“Oh, I can assure you Prince Sigurd _despises_ you, but luckily, he seems to adore me. Go, and don’t make me regret this.”

With a light laugh you kiss her cheek and dart out of the room, ready to follow the familiar path to where you asked Prince Sigurd to arrange a meeting between his brother and you.

“So it is you.” He says, dragging himself up a couch in front of yours. You clasp your hands together to keep them from trembling, and try to remember all the logic, all the strategy, you’ve put behind this stupid plan of yours.

“I told them to let you know.” You reply curtly, but the Prince shrugs.

“Sigurd could be mocking me. Make the cripple think he is meeting with the Princess?” He shrugs, but it is not nonchalant in the slightest. In all of his fame and vitriol, you notice, now only remains a man uncertain, unmoored, braced for rejection or mocking like you’ve scarcely seen before. The knowledge that you, or the combination of you and his older brother, seem to be a vulnerable point for him is a knowledge you don’t truly know what to do with. You say nothing in response, and with a movement of his head, after settling in his seat, he insists, “Why did you want to meet with me?”

“You norsemen have a reputation,” You start carefully, plucking at a lose string on the sleeve of your dress. “And the crown needs the allegiance Blaeja’s marriage with your brother gives them, so no mat-…”

“I don’t like your roundabout ways,” He states brusquely, and it stops you on your tracks, your eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the Prince. He gestures with one hand, a frown starting to mar his face, “Just say what you want, _Princess_.”

“I want you to take me with you back to wherever it is you come from. I want them to believe I’ve been stolen.”

The Prince looks at you like you have grown a second head, and to be quite frank, once the words have left your lips you realize you might as well have. This is foolish, and dangerous, and… _crazy._

That’s what they called your mother, not only these norsemen but all of them. Because she admitted what many didn’t dare to: that if she had been born with a cock they all would have bowed and given her the crown she deserved, that the earth would have been easier to walk on.

You refuse to think madness is a bad trait.

You don’t have to ponder whether the Viking will see it as such, for you notice you have piqued his interest, you notice the curiosity at the madness in your request.

“Are you sure _you_ aren’t the mad Mercian princess?”

You offer a humorless laugh at his taunt, and retort, “I don’t want to be here anymore. And…I can prove useful to you.”

“If you say a wife…”

You don’t let him finish, leaning closer and whispering,

“They want me to marry Alfred.”

“And you don’t want to.”

“His grandfather took Mercia from me, I will not be used as a broodmare so they can hold on tighter to my kingdom.”

The Viking starts to smile, wild and yet calculating, the ruthless and intelligent man his fame says he is.

“But you don’t want revenge.”

“They can fight for the scraps of what once was a mighty kingdom for the rest of time for all I care,” You offer honestly, “ _I_ do not want to be caught up in between. I will have to give him children if I marry him, and I refuse to let a child of mine suffer like my mother did, like Blaeja did.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, and his tone grows cruel, mocking, like the cat that plays with the poor mouse before eating it, when he insists, “I could make you a slave, sell you. If you annoy me, I could torture you. If you betray me, I would kill you.”

“I told you I was of use to you, though,” You insist past the fear that makes your hands tremble, “I will not be of use in pieces. You and Alfred played chess before, haven’t you?”

He loosens his posture, his expression is no longer so guarded and venomous as he asks, “And what is this use?”

“I’m a pawn they want to make Queen,” You state, and the Viking starts to smile. You knew he was smart; you knew he was aware of how he could take advantage of ‘taking’ you as a prisoner for his own gain. You have a feeling he wanted to know if you were aware of how your position could be played. Like chess, you ponder. “Surely you could ask for a lot in exchange for my safe return home.”

He considers your words in silence for a few moments, eyes travelling between yours as if trying to read your response to the words he has not yet uttered.

“And if I don’t want to return you to your home?”

You shrug, “Then they’ll have a rallying call for their war against your people, and I will be free from these…these nobles and their _fucking priests._ ”

The Viking breathes a laugh, surprised and a little enthralled it seems, but you find yourself smiling back.

You keep careful eyes on the moon that travels the skies, watchful over the time that you will have to return to your rooms before anyone notices your absence. But in the meantime, you enjoy with easy smiles and a light heart the company of the Viking, surprisingly enough.

____

And the few extra days Blaeja can buy you do almost nothing for the plans of your escape -a part of you is certain the Viking has a plan he won’t share with you- but it does let you get to know the man you are asking to kidnap you. A giant brute like the others, that’s for certain, but he is smart, and cunning, and his dry humor never fails to make you laugh.

You find yourself intrigued, captivated, much more so than you could have thought when you made the choice to speak out against his brother during that first dinner. It is no secret to you he is no longer a pawn in the game you decided to play, but you cannot help but think you still are merely a pawn to him.

One of the nights you meet under the guard of the moon, he starts, “I cannot take you from this city, not without an army.”

“I know.”

His eyebrows raise, “And you have thought of a way around that.”

“Haven’t you?” You reply with a small smile, knowing he has.

“If you could go closer to York…”

“Or you closer to Tamworth.”

“We’d have no way to leave by sea. I can’t exactly walk through the wilderness with you, Princess, as you can see.”

You roll your eyes with a smile on your lips, but eventually acquiesce with a nod.

You sigh, “Then I don’t know, Ivar.”

You notice it is the first time you have said his name instead of his title, and you raise startled and apologetic eyes to him. He doesn’t seem to mind, though you notice his gaze lingering on you for a few moments longer than it should.

It gives your still young and innocent heart a shock of hope that you feel all the way to the tips of your fingers.

“One way or another, I will steal you, Princess,” He insistes, and you only lift an eyebrow in response. He crosses his arms, “I promise.”

____

“They leave tonight.” Blaeja starts from her place sitting at your side on the garden bench. You turn to her.

“ _You_ leave tonight,” You remind her, “Aren’t you forgetting your lovely husband to be?”

But she shakes her head, “Prince Sigurd and I will marry if he returns,” Her voice wavers, and you realize with a mix of dread and joy she has learned to _care_ for the Viking. She straightens her back and continues, “ _When_ he returns from the battle they depart today to prepare for.”

“Against Alfred?”

“Against the woman that murdered their mother. He says they are to take back their Kingdom from her.”

“Your Prince trusts you with all of these things.”

“His brother tells you things too.” She states without hesitation, and you look at her but stay silent, not denying Ivar has told you of Queen Aslaug and her murder already. Many things actually, just as you have told him many things too.

“So it will be a while before you see him again, if ever.” You muse, not only talking about her. It would be foolish to feel pain, loss, fear; you tell yourself. It doesn’t stop the prick of tears on your eyes, or the pit of pain on your chest.

“I will depart to Bamburgh in three days to await word of the outcome of the battle.”

You lay your head on her shoulder, releasing a shaky breath, “I’ll miss you.”

_____

Judith hounds you like a dog and it is starting to get on your nerves. You feel you are being judged and considered carefully for the role of Alfred’s wife, a role you do not want to be in and, if you were to ask him, you don’t think he’d want you in either.

The talks start of having a royal wedding soon after Blaeja weds the Viking Prince, who seems to have survived the battle for Kattegat. You tried asking around, bribing a servant or two, to figure out the fate of Prince Ivar, but you are too close to bearing the crown for them to feel comfortable trading secrets with you, it seems.

You catch sight of Alfred’s eyes on you during a dinner one night, and he offers what you swear is a soothing smile even if his warm eyes shine with regret.

Judith grabs onto her son’s arm and a tired-looking Aethelwulf stands up from his throne, calling for the attention of the clergy and nobles alike.

They announce you as Alfred’s betrothed after a few words you don’t bother with listening to.

As a gift for his bride to be, Alfred arranges for a few soldiers to escort you to Bamburgh, apparently at the request of Princess Blaeja that you accompany her on her wedding day. And barely with time to pack, almost three months after you last saw her, you are in a carriage on your way to the North.

____

She looks radiant, that’s the first thing you notice when you see her awaiting for you by the gates to the royal home. Bright smile and even brighter eyes, rosy cheeks and excitement and joy written all over her posture.

It gladdens you, to know she will be wed to a man she can care for, a man that can care for her. That maybe, just maybe, like in those tales your mother used to mock, there’s love to be felt before the Lord is to bind them together.

And once the ships arrive you will not lie and pretend you don’t feel disappointment, maybe grief, at the absence of the vitriolic yet captivating prince you met what seems so long ago.

You heard them talking about a son of Ragnar becoming King of Kattegat, and you have no doubts as to who bears the crown now. In another world, you may have left, he may have earned a kingdom in what used to be Mercia or Northumbria in exchange for the safe return to Wessex you’d never make.

But you will not let it stop you from finding a way out of this arrangement, of this…this marriage.

The possibility of asking Blaeja to claim you as a permanent resident of her land is there, of course, but you don’t think she has enough leverage against the crown itself to be able to keep you more than a few months. You could simply run away, but you are not stupid, you know you’d die or be found before you can spend a moon in the wilderness.

Still, you are a smart woman, you tell yourself, you will find a way out.

While the dinner -feast, they call it- in celebration for the wedding takes place, a man you recognize as one of the eldest sons of Ragnar approaches you while you sit alone.

You cannot help the pang of fear that runs through you at the sight of one of those giants looming over you, but you still offer what you hope is a courteous smile.

“You have to come with me.” He tells you, and you frown.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Follow me.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, turning his back to you and slithering effortlessly between the dancing and feasting guests. After a moment of consideration, with a small smile on your face as if it were a thrillingly dangerous game of hide and seek, you chase after the Viking.

He leads you all the way down to the docks, and since the moon is high up in the skies, the streets are almost deserted and you are left forced to guide yourself in the darkness or thanks to the rare and dim light of a faraway lantern.

You still push on, your heart beating on your ears and fear and thrill bubbling under your skin.

“This is where I leave you, Princess,” The son of Ragnar says, stopping abruptly and turning to you. You frown, but he doesn’t step closer so you have nothing to fear. “We will see each other again.”

The man with the blondish and long hair gestures a mock of a formal goodbye, and walks confidently back to the royal home where the party -feast- is still taking place.

You are left dumbfounded and alone in the darkness, and instinct makes you want to chase after him and demand answers.

“Following a strange Viking into the darkness,” A familiar voice starts from behind you, stopping you on your tracks, “No wonder people say you are as crazy as your mother, Princess.”

You turn around with a frown and raised chin, ready to retort, “My mother was not c-…”

But you realize halfway as the words leave your lips whose voice it is, to whom the familiar pale blue eyes belong to.

Ivar stands now, and his hair seems longer and braided in some strange style, even his armor looks different. It seems like years have passed even though it has scarcely been half a year yet.

“You’re alive.” You whisper, and the Viking frowns, affronted.

“Of course I am,” He replies arrogantly, and you cannot keep the smile from your lips. He extends a hand, “And I’ve come to…steal you, was it?”

You don’t answer, even if a part of you is thrilled at him remember that first conversation. You only look at him with wide eyes.

“You’re a king now.”

“Hmm, and I was offered a queen, was I not?”

It startles you back to reality, back to your senses, and you notice the three ships with dim lanterns and silent warriors docked at the sides of the dragon-headed ship Ivar -King Ivar now, you suppose- stands in.

“That’s…not what I meant.” You say, but still your hand grasps at the skirts of your dress to lift it up, and you walk closer.

“Have you decided to stay with them?” And the sudden steel underneath his words, a promise of what you could be at the other end of if he is to believe you’ve fooled him, or gone back on your word, makes a thrill of fear go down your back.

“No, but…”

“Usually stealing a bride doesn’t involve this much _talking_ , Princess.” He interrupts, and extends a hand, and you look at it with wide eyes.

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“I-…” You look into his eyes, pale blue eyes that you saw more than once when you closed your own in these past months, and a breathy laugh leaves your lips, “This is madness.”

Ivar says nothing, but his hand is still stretched between you. You take it, and jump into the ship.


	2. Chapter 2

Putting up the act of being dragged a hysterical, frantic mess of a woman all the way from the docks to the King’s dungeons was not that difficult. You had kept the nervous energy within you ever since you accepted getting on that boat, and finding a release to it was…cathartic, in a way.

The King’s bodyguards that kept firm hands on your upper arms as they took you to the prison that will be your home for who-knows how long don’t push or shove you into the cell, making you wonder how many people are truly aware of this ruse.

The moment the door is closed, the moment you are safe behind the iron bars and away from the crown and its reach, you cannot help the laugh -hysterical, hoarse, crazy laugh- that leaves your lips, that breaks its way out of your lungs.

You are free.

You lay on that cell for so long you forget to keep track of the time, but small little laughs leave your lips every once in a while, as you lean on the tips of your feet to look out the small window, into the foreign sky.

Free.

You laugh again, shaking fingers enclosed around the iron bars, and you hear a shuffling sound behind you.

“These people say I’m crazy. I wonder what they’ll have to say for the Princess that laughs at her own imprisonment.” King Ivar states, squaring his shoulders and standing tall on the other side of that cage door.

You smile, “You did it. You promised, and you did it. You got me out of there.”

“I keep my promises,” He states, resolute, before continuing, “Any other woman would be terrified, not delighted, at being on a Viking’s cell.”

You shrug, “Maybe they are right, maybe I _am_ crazy.”

The King considers you in silence, clear eyes piercing as they take you in, and after a few heartbeats, shakes his head minutely.

“No, not crazy.”

____

You have learned more and more of these Norsemen’s language, and in turn you’ve taught King Ivar more of your own -it didn’t surprise you when he ordered you to teach him, saying when he negotiated with Alfred he didn’t want some meddling translator-; and you’ve learned of their traditions, and their Gods, and their honor.

Heartless, Godless, nothing but barbarians; they used to say. But you’ve seen the mothers loving their children like any Christian would, the faithful honoring their strange Gods in their own way.

They know nothing but bloodthirst, they care for nothing, love nothing; that’s what the soldiers used to whisper to terrify the maidens. But these are a people alive like any other, and yes, they are cold and harsh and brutish, but if their King is anything to go by, they are as capable as humanity as any other.

If you believed their tales, which you never truly did, thanks to King Ecbert’s lessons; it would have all still crumbled to dust and lies before your eyes as you grew closer and closer to the man that ‘abducted’ you.

All their tales of cruelty and ruthlessness and bloodthirst, they are more than true, of course; but they forget to tell of the awkward gentleness with which he holds your hand and presses absent kisses to it; they forget to tell of the cautious vulnerability that shines in those pale eyes when the sun sets and it’s just the two of you and your secrets and your promises; they forget to tell of the shuddered breaths over your lips, the eyes that fluttered closed when you lean close enough, that fill you with warmth to your very core.

They forget many things. Hopefully, they forget to tell about you, too.

Let you be forgotten by those people that killed your mother; let you be forgotten by the God that never looked upon your family with none of his mercy; let you be forgotten by the boy you may have cared for but never loved, not like this.

You spent a fortnight -maybe?- in that cell. It didn’t surprise you, a believable claim that you willingly came with King Ivar to Scandinavia would mean the leverage to return you to Wessex would be null. What did surprise you, though, was that you were very often visited, almost every day, by the King.

He is a fascinating man, he was to you since that first moment. He never ceased to be, even now, after months of secrets and pried truths and reluctant vulnerability and _him_.

Shortly after, you were allowed more performative freedoms, and it didn’t cost you much to put up an act that slowly waned and disappeared that you feared, hated even, the heathens that took you captive.

You’ve seen the ashen faces of those who returned from battle against the Vikings, you’ve heard the tales of the women that trembled at the memory of the raiders, you’ve known of their fame ever since your mother was gifted her uncle’s head by one of these Norsemen.

It is not hard for you to imagine why a woman -a sane woman, maybe- would fear them. And so, the act is not hard, the ruse is not difficult.

And let them think the King broke you, let them think a poor maiden was stolen from her home, let them think you long to return to your home, let them think you feel nothing but cold. In the meantime, you will be free, and safe, and growing to love a King that gives you nothing but warmth.

____

“I want to learn how to fight.” You tell him one evening, as you watch the sun set over the distant waves, and hear the training warriors somewhere near the longhouse.

He hums at your words, lifting your hand and absently pressing a kiss to the back of it before he asks, “Why?”

You offer a shrug and a small smile as you retort dryly, “A Princess, alone and surrounded by savages, she should have some means of defending herself?”

The King offers a side smile at your jest, and it feels like a tiny victory. Always does. It always has, ever since the first time you saw him, you don’t even remember how long ago.

“I _could_ let someone teach you.” He finally drawls out, slowly, meticulously.

You cannot mask your enthusiasm, you realize too late, “Really?”

“For a price.” He clarifies.

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise. What is your price, my King?”

But he shakes his head, “That secret is mine to keep for now,” Lifting his eyes to yours and knowing he won, King Ivar insists, “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes!” You say quickly, surprising even yourself.

“Are you su-…” The King starts, even as some strange softness teases at his expression. You realize that you have startled him, and somehow that makes the excitement bubbling in your chest greater.

“Yes!” You interrupt, biting your lip and offering a sheepish shrug in apology when he glares at you, “I’m sorry, but yes.”

“Sit down, no one is going to train you now.” He chastises, but you know his tells by now. And the gentle tug of his hand on yours to bring you closer again is not even needed for you to understand he wasn’t ready or willing for you to part form his embrace. You concede with a breathed laugh and a smile that you press against his own lips, and rest against his side with a sigh.

“Thank you.” You whisper, so quietly you barely hear yourself.

“Hm. You know, I never convinced myself you aren’t at least a bit crazy.” He muses, with what you know -but he’d deny to his grave- is a soft kiss pressed to the crown of your head.

____

“Fuck!” You gasp out, Ubbe’s sword a hair’s width away from your neck, “Shouldn’t there be…wooden swords, or something?”

“Don’t you trust me?” The Prince asks around a smile. You answer with widened eyes and pushing his sword away from your neck with your own.

“Not when you hold a blade to my neck, my Prince!”

The Viking laughs, genuine and young, and you find yourself smiling back. You both assume your positions again, even if you are certain you are one sneeze away from being gutted.

“Why did you want to learn anyways? Aren’t you West Saxons supposed to sue for peace instead?” Ubbe starts as he guides your arm through a motion to break out of a block.

“I am Mercian, but yes, we do prefer _talking_.” You answer, focused on following his indications.

“Then why learn to fight?” The Prince insists.

“I want to be able to defend myself.”

King Ivar calls your name from behind you, a greeting and a demand of your attention as he approaches you and his brother. You turn around, and he inserts himself into the conversation you were having with Ubbe,

“Defending yourself also includes not starting fights you cannot win.”

“Ladies don’t start fights.” You shoot back quickly, side smile on your lips.

You hear him snort a laugh and your smile widens.

“But _you_ do,” Ivar says, just as you deviate with your sword Ubbe’s attempt to strike your leg. “For someone so…”

Pushing back against the other son of Ragnar, you interrupt him.

“Don’t say small.” You grit out as you turn around, fight on pause.

“ _Small_ ,” He supplies anyways, emphatically. He looks maddeningly delighted when you furrow your nose in annoyance, “You surely seem to love starting fights.”

“If by ‘starting’ you mean not letting you get away with-…”

“Get away? You get the last word _every_ time I e-…”

“Brother, Princess,” Ubbe calls out, eyeing you strangely before motioning with his head, “Training.”

You nod, getting your focus back into place, and try getting used to the unfamiliar weight of the shield in your hands as you face the bearded man again.

Ivar’s voice cuts into your thoughts again, and your concentration evaporates along with your patience.

“Why are you standing like he does? You are half his size, you can’t mimic him and expect good results.”

You face him with gritted teeth, “Well, if my _teacher_ did something other than berating me I could-…”

“You asked for my help.”

“I…shut up,” You sentence, turning back to Ubbe and correcting your stance to something you feel grounded and able to move on. The older Prince looks at his brother, considering, and then takes the shield from you. You let go of it with ease, but still question, “My Prince?”

“He’s right. You are small.”

“Thank you.” You sentence dryly, and the other man chuckles in response.

“I mean we can’t have you fight like you would in the front lines. Instead, fight like you would in an ambush.”

You shrug, because you have no idea what he means, and let him guide you through the movements.

____

You know what he’s going to say before you even hear him.

“Again.”

“Everything hurts.” You groan as you sit up from the cold dirt.

“I don’t care,” Ivar is quick to retort, and you have a feeling he can sense you rolling your eyes, because a taunt is quick to follow, “You Saxons may stop when you are in pain, but Vikings don’t. _Again_.”

Gritting your teeth and letting one or two curses in your native language leave your lips, you stand up and lift the sword. Prince Hvitserk smiles, hands toying with his axe as she studies you for a moment.

For once, you attack first, slashing towards his side, but the wooden hilt of his axe stops the movement. Not hesitating, you pull back and try again, making the Viking take a couple of steps back.

He breaks the block with a twist of his weapon’s hilt, making your sword slide off and your balance weaken. The victory is his as he raises the great axe over his head with a yell, but you lift the sword, stopping him even as you are forced to grab the blade with your free hand to give more strength to the block.

Blood pours from between your fingers and sharp pain follows, but you keep your attention on Hvitserk and wait for the moment you see him decide to push instead of retreat and attacking again. When his strength focuses on his upper body, like he did to you many times before, you place your boot on his inner thigh and kick outwards.

The force of your kick sends you stumbling back, but you catch yourself. The Viking falls down in his back though, and with enthusiasm you hold the tip of your sword over him. Victory.

You allow yourself a small smile, and Hvitserk shoulders his great axe as he stands up, fight over.

“You are getting better, Princess.” He praises gruffly, and you thank him with a nod.

Whatever dignity you tried gaining with the composed gesture is blown by the way you cannot seem to stop the excited pitter-patter of your feet as you walk back to Ivar.

“Did you see?” You ask. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so wide, and you could swear a little bit of your enthusiasm gets to the King, who smiles at you somewhat softly.

“He went easy on you.”

“I know that.” You answer with a roll of your eyes.

“And you are bleeding everywhere.” Ivar points out, signaling with his head to your hand. Reminded of your wound, you bring up your fist but Ivar is quick to catch it in his own hand.

You open your palm to see a cut running down your palm and similar ones -although not as deep- in your fingers. Your eyes follow the trail of a thick drop of blood that slithers down the side of your hand to your wrist.

Apparently, Ivar’s eyes followed the same droplet, for he moves your hand to his mouth and quickly licks off the offending drop.

“Ivar!” You chastise, tugging softly at the braid at the back of his neck, stopping his tongue from continuing trailing maddeningly the skin at your bloodied hand. He laughs, his eyes darkened when he looks up at you, and you cannot deny the rush of heat that look sends through you.

“I like it when you call me that.” He says, side smile still bearing the mark of your blood. You have the errant, traitorous thought to kiss the stain of blood off his lips, and because _you can_ , because there’s no shame in lust or love, you lean down and do exactly that.

The metallic taste of your own blood on his lips makes you wonder if you could convince him to forget there’s a kingdom past your bed if only for a few hours; steal him away so he can think, taste, or feel nothing but you, so you can think, taste, or feel nothing but him.

Instead, trying to gather your wits and keep your voice even, you answer, “It _is_ your name.”

“But you also call me ‘my King’,” He says, hand still holding yours and moving it so that he can see the wound more clearly. You keep your eyes on his profile, and find yourself startled when he suddenly looks up at you, head cocked to the side. Thankfully he doesn’t notice your eyes tracing the shape of his lips, and instead asks, “And you don’t really mean that, do you?”

You huff a laugh, “You _are_ King of Kattegat.”

“But am I _your_ King?” Ivar insists, eyes narrowed.

“I…” You start, stopping yourself when you realize you have no quick answer to give. You are not Viking; but you also have sworn no fealty to no king or kingdom, not since the ruse of your ‘capture’ was started. Still, you give him his answer in a soft voice, “No.”

He seems almost pleased, his smile turning more sincere when he states, “Call me by my name from now on then.”

You agree with a nod, the only answer your lips give is a smile, before you lean to speak by his ear. You will never cease to be delighted at the wonder mixed with desire that darken his eyes whenever you remind him of how much you want him.

Turns out stealing a King is way easier than you thought. You needed only a whisper in his ear and a sway of your hips.

____

“You are getting better,” The King starts that night, and you turn your attention to him with a smile. The people have months ago stopped staring at the crazy Mercian Princess, and the whispers about how happy she looks even as a captive have quietened; and for the first time since your mother died you have felt safe and comfortable. King Ivar continues, “For a Saxon.”

“You could just compliment me, you know.” You offer with a side smile.

The King uses the hand he holds in his -he always does, he always finds a way to be touching you and your hands seems to be a preference of his- to tug you closer where you sit on the bench next to him, and it is with a breathy chuckle that you find yourself pressed against his side.

He considers you for a few moments, before leaning close to your ear and whispering, so low only you can hear,

“You are a maddening woman, you know that?” His fingers intertwine with yours before he continues, “A maddening, infuriating, crazy woman. The most beautiful and fascinating woman I’ve ever met. The woman I…”

His words die, because they always do. Even if they always do, even if he has never admitted anything, even if he has never said he cares for you, or loves you; your heart still skips a beat every time you dare hope he just might.

But because you’ve grown to know him, to understand, you do not feel pain anymore. You let yourself believe he loves you when you feel his hand reaching for you in the dead of night, as if to make sure you are still there; you let yourself believe he loves you when you are the last one to open your eyes after you make love and find his eyes on you, his expression that of wonder and peace, you let yourself believe many things.

And so, you give the answer to the words he hasn’t -can’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t- say,

“I love you.”

As always, as every time you tell him of your love since that first time, Ivar’s expression softens, his shoulders drop, as if you bring relief to a part of him you don’t notice is always on edge.

Because he has his tells, and he knows by now you know of them.

And when you tell him you love him and you are alone in the safety of his -your? You don’t remember sleeping anywhere else- room, his eyes close and his lips pull into the smallest of smiles, soft and content.

And when you tell him you love him in the great hall, like now, he drops the tension in his shoulders and claims your mouth, sealing the words against his own lips as if to prove they are real, they are true.

He has his tells, and they betray that even if he does not dare say the words, he does feel the same.

____

You wake up at an absence in your bed, and missing Ivar’s warmth you sit up. You find him sitting by one of the chairs near a window, his hand by his mouth and a furrow in his brow. His eyes are intent on a map of England he keeps on a nearby table, and you realize what kept him awake without needing to hear a word.

“Word from Winchester?” You ask, getting out from under the furs but only moving to the foot of the bed, where you sit with your legs underneath you.

“Mhm. Alfred demanded proof you are safe, and the letter you sent was enough. But, since you are safe, he asks now that you are returned to him. In exchange for Lindsey.”

“Lindsey? Ivar, that’s-…”

“It’ll allow me to take over half of Mercia, I know” He doesn’t seem thrilled at the idea, even if he showed you, you don’t know how many moons ago, that having free access to that region would give him a great advantage. “And Alfred knows too. He knows what you are worth.”

And so the reminder of what this deal entails - _your return-_ falls on your stomach like a dead weight. Of course, of course show could you forget? A Princess stolen in exchange for a ransom to be paid by those who want her back, a while of freedom bought until the offer is made, and if the offer is enough, you’ll sail back to Alfred and need another way to get away from there. One King walks away with new lands, the other with a bride.

But you remember those days spent in Winchester, before he was King, before Blaeja was Sigurd’s wife, before you were his ‘prisoner’; and you remember him asking what if he didn’t wish to return you to Alfred.

You remember that, and you remember every day since; and so you hope, and taking a deep breath and steeling yourself for the response, you ask,

“What will you do?”

He considers you in silence, with cold, calculating eyes. But with a grunt, he throws something he was holding in his hand and takes his eyes away from yours. You startle, but say nothing. You don’t think there’s much -if anything- you can say.

Tension is written all over his form, and after a few calculated breaths, he meets your eyes again.

“Marry me.”

“What!?” You squeak. He calls _you_ a mad woman then comes up with these ideas.

But Ivar settles with calm, with certainty, in his madness. Like when you’ve seen him plan an attack, you realize he has thought of the alternatives, the outcomes. And, like in strategy, like in _chess_ , he has certainty in what the next move must be.

He stands, using the crutch to move closer to you and sits next to you on the bed. His hand runs through your hair and settles comfortably at the back of your neck.

“I took a Princess from him, but he won’t take a Queen from me.”

“W-What are you saying?”

“They won’t make Queen of Wessex and Mercia a woman that was made wife to a Viking, much less Queen of Kattegat.”

Your heart beats madly in your ears, you feel like one of those trapped rabbits you saw the hunters bring back. You only look back at him with a knot in your stomach and wide eyes.

“And Lindsey?”

“We’ll threaten to send you in pieces if he does not send those papers, if he doesn’t concede. When he does, we’ll announce we’re married. They’ll think I stole you away and forced you, but they won’t be able to take you away, since we’ll be husband and wife.”

“In the eyes of _your_ Gods. It will be nothing but pagan nonsense to the church. They’ll annul it, claim I was raped and so I am still fit to marry Alfred.”

And in the blink of an eye you are back in that hidden room in Winchester’s palace, sneaking thanks to Blaeja and her Prince to meet with the man that promised to steal you away; exchanging ideas and hopes on how to make this work.

“We’ll marry before their God too.”

He says it certainly, with no hesitation. He truly thinks of it all, doesn’t he?

And you wish you could say yes, you wish you could accept and finally seal your future away from England’s hands. You truly do, but…

“No,” You whisper, feeling the tears threaten at your eyes. The moment the simple word leaves your lips, you have another man standing before you. Closed off, with an edge of cruel madness shining in his gaze. “I’ll find another way. I won’t marry you for a business deal.

With a snarl of anger making his nose furrow, his jaw tighten, the King lets you go. You stand on shaky legs and walk a few steps to where he used to sit, eyeing the map of the land that saw you be born.

The land that might see you die, if they give you no choice but to return.

But Ivar calls your name, and interrupts your dark thoughts. It is the uncertainty where before there was strategy, the vulnerability where before there was confidence, the softness where before there was steel; what makes you turn to him with a new kind of tension taking over your body.

“T-Then marry me because I love you.” He whispers, a twitch in his expression speaking of how unmoored he is, how uncomfortable with the confession, with the possibilities it opens before you. With the power it gives you.

It should thrill you, to know you hold power over him. He has held power over you for so long, he has had your love for so long, it is only fair you have his heart in exchange. But the _fear_ you see shining in his pale eyes startles you, softens you, breaks you.

So you step closer, so close he can reach up with one rough hand and set his touch at your waist -he always finds a way to be touching you, he always does- and he does, his eyes following his hand before meeting your own again.

“This is madness.” You whisper, and his lips curve into a smile, because he understands, he knows.

And the answer leaves your lips as easily as your feet jumped into that ship, and you whisper your _yes_ against hungry lips, forgetting there’s a world past the two of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that is it! Hope you liked it, and hope you didn’t mind the lil Persephone’s abduction imagery sprinkled about, I am way too invested in Greek mythology atm for it not to show in most of what I write lol.
> 
> Btw, Lindsey is a region in the Kingdom of Mercia
> 
> Would love to know what you think, and thank you so much for reading!


End file.
